Lost Without His Blogger
by Falco aesalon
Summary: A series of drabbles, one-shots and scraps about Sherlock, John and other characters.  No slash.  Filling out a meme from deviantART by writing instead of drawing because my drawing skills are nil.
1. Introduction

I've seen this meme floating around deviantART. It's where you draw 100 pictures, each with a theme. I decided that since I am not at all talented at drawing that I might as well make them all into stories. So here we are.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this nor do I make any money from this.

Chapter 1: Introduction

Mike Stamford was not surprised to hear Sherlock Holmes complaining that he couldn't find a flatmate. What did surprise him is that his old colleague, John Watson, said almost the exact same thing on the same day. Naturally, he introduced them. Stamford was not at all surprised when Sherlock was able to tell John's life story just by observing him. Nor was he surprised when, after finding John's blog, he found that Sherlock and John had solved the serial suicides.


	2. Love

Because I am not a slasher, it took me a while to come up with something that makes sense. I apologize that it's kind of a character study, but I promise we'll see some action sometime soon. Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Love

Love. Was Molly Hooper in love? She had absolutely no idea.

You-know-who, Molly called him. He would come to St. Bart's and ask her for something. No matter how much she dreaded seeing him there, no matter how many times he came in, she simply seemed unable to refuse him. You-know-who was always so charming, he flirted with her and even complimented her to get what he wanted.

Molly wasn't under any impression that he actually _liked_ her. She was sure that she was nothing more than a pawn to you-know-who. She still couldn't help helping him though, especially when he flattered her. One compliment was all it took to get a look at the feet of two dead men. Molly almost named her cat after him, but the cat was far too cute and fluffy.

Then _he_ came along. Jim. From IT. He actually read her blog! She was surprised that anyone read her blog at all, but he was nice. Not at all like you-know-who, you understand, he actually seemed to want to get to know her. Maybe even an office romance or sorts. Of course you-know-who had to spoil it all. He took one look at Jim and a single word came out, "gay." Sure, they say everyone needs a gay best friend, but Molly thought they had something more.

Did Molly love you-know-who? Still not sure about that.

Did Molly love Jim, even after you-know-who's revelation? Yes. Did Jim love her? Maybe you-know-who was wrong about Jim after all.

...

Oh, Molly, how little you know.

I always like to know what my readers think of my work, so please review! You won't regret it!


	3. Light

Finally we get to see Sherlock and John!

Chapter 3: Light

{John H. Watson's PoV}

"It's dark," I said, "there's no light."

"You ability to state the obvious is absolutely stunning, John," said Sherlock.

"Thank you," I said.

"It wasn't a compliment," said Sherlock.

"I know," I replied.

A moment of silence engulfed us as we sat in the dark cellar. To summarize the situation, Sherlock was breaking into the headquarters of a gang of thieves. He left me on guard. I, not having had a good night's sleep for over a week, fell asleep on watch. Because I was asleep, I utterly failed to warn Sherlock of the thieves' return and as a result, we were tied up and tossed in a dark, moldy cellar.

"You do realize that this is all your fault, Sherlock,' I said, quite irritated at our current situation.

"Me? How is this my fault?" asked Sherlock.

"If you hadn't dragged me along with you, I'd be coming home from a nice dinner with Sarah instead of being locked in a cellar with you."

"If you hadn't fallen asleep on watch then we wouldn't _be_ here." I knew Sherlock was trying to pin the blame on me at this point. He is not one that likes to admit to having made a mistake.

"And whose fault is it that I haven't had a good night's sleep in almost two weeks?"

"Arguing isn't going to get us out of here, John." Who was stating the obvious now?

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I said.

Sherlock ignored me. "See all these boxes, John?"

"I can't see anything, Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to ignore me. "They obviously use this place to store their loot. That means there's a chance there's a light of some sort down here."

Sherlock stood up and felt his way around the room. After a few minutes, a triumphant cry sounded. "Let there be light," Sherlock said dramatically as he pulled a string. Light instantly flooded the room.

"How," I asked as my eyes adjusted to the light, "does this help us?"

"Tell me, John," said Sherlock as he held up his hands, now free of the cord binding them, "when will criminals learn to either tie a knot right or just duct tape their prisoners?"


	4. Dark

In this chapter, Sherlock is four years old and Mycroft is eleven. Enjoy!

Chapter 4: Dark

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed. He could hear noises coming from downstairs! _Burglars_, he thought. Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to let anyone rob his house! He could hardly see anything in the darkness, but he decided that he had to stop the burglars at any cost! First, he had to get out of bed. That was easy. After stubbing his toes a few times, he finally found the big stick he'd saved from outside. It was as tall as he was, and his mother didn't want it in the house, but he'd still managed to sneak it in under her nose. Armed with the stick, he crept towards the top of the stairs.

He had never gone downstairs this late at night before, and it took another few minutes to work up enough nerve to go downstairs. There was one stair that made an awful creaking noise when stepped on, but Sherlock could avoid it if he stretched far enough.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock noticed that there was a light in the kitchen. _The burglars must have a torch_, he thought, _and they're looking for valuables like silver or other things_. As he entered the kitchen, he saw someone with his back turned to him. Sherlock didn't recognize the figure, so he raised his stick, crept forward and whacked the person on the back with the stick as hard as his four-year-old self could manage.

The person gave a cry of surprise, turned, and said, "Sherlock, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

...

Mycroft Holmes rubbed his sore back and glared at his younger brother. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I heard noises from downstairs and thought there might be burglars in the house." He thought for a moment, then said, "What were _you_ doing in the kitchen?"

"I was hungry."

"You're always hungry, Mycroft!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes in the dark, even though he knew Sherlock couldn't see. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you back to bed. There's no need to sit here in the dark like this."


	5. Rot

Chapter 5: Rot

After a long day at work, John Watson climbed the flight of seventeen steps to the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes. The first thing he noticed was the odd smell.

"Sherlock, what have you done now?"

"Nothing," came the reply.

John entered the kitchen, where he found his flatmate staring at a plate stacked with several bananas. "What on earth are you doing and what is that awful smell?"

"I'm observing the decomposition of these bananas."

"I assume this is for a case?" John asked.

"No. I was bored and there was nothing else to do. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was just going to throw them out anyway."

"A good way to spend your time, watching bananas rot," John said sarcastically as he opened the fridge.

"We're out of milk again," said Sherlock.

"What? I just bought some yesterday! What did you do with it?"

"What people usually do with milk."

"The whole carton?"

"Yes. Problem?"


	6. Breakdown

Chapter 6: Breakdown

{John H. Watson's PoV}

Never again in my life will I allow Sherlock to drive when we are involved in any kind of car chase.

It started like any normal case. Sherlock was investigating away and eating at extremely odd hours. For instance, one morning at 2:00 a.m., I heard a noise in the kitchen. Immediately suspicious, I rushed downstairs with my gun to find Sherlock in the kitchen devouring a bowl of ramen noodles. I realize "devouring" seems a strange word to use to describe Sherlock's actions, but it is nonetheless true.

The case ended with me and Sherlock sitting in a car across the street from a house in a small town outside London. This house was supposed to be the criminals' base of operations. Of course, Sherlock just happened to be in the driver's seat when the criminals attempted their grand escape, so he slammed the accelerator pedal into the car floor and I found myself hurtling down the road at speeds we would've been arrested for under normal circumstances.

The scenery flew by and the speedometer was showing frightening speeds. Sherlock drove like a maniac. There is simply no other way to put it. The van we were chasing suddenly veered off onto a dirt road. Cursing, Sherlock pulled off an impressive u-turn before following the van onto the dirt road.

After a few minutes, I noticed that the scenery wasn't flying past so quickly. "Sherlock, why are we slowing down?" I asked. "Have we run out of fuel?"

"No, can't have," said Sherlock, "the tank's still half full."

The car slowed to a complete stop.

"Not to alarm you, John, but I believe we've broken down."

...

Edit: Thanks to mrspencil for pointing out that the American "gas pedal" is known as the "accelerator pedal" in Britain. Also, a completely stupid error on my part in putting "accelerometer" instead of "speedometer." *facepalm* I have no idea what I was thinking.


	7. Heaven

Chapter 7: Heaven

{John H. Watson's PoV}

I was barely aware of anything at this point. I hardly cared whether I lived or died. For all I knew, maybe I was dead. No, that couldn't be; if I was dead, I wouldn't be feeling the pain I was feeling now. Everything was cold and white and random memories hazily presented themselves to me. The pain of the bullet ripping through my shoulder, unwrapping a set of toy soldiers on a cold Christmas morning years ago during my childhood, Murray's voice commanding me to stay awake as I was hurried to a hospital, my sister Harry laughing at the ignorance and innocence of a question I'd just asked her, my mother hugging me good-bye as I left home to study at Bart's...

I still wasn't sure whether I was dead or not. I'd never died before, so how would I know what it felt like? One would assume that you'd feel nothing when you die, but is that assumption really true?

I'd already tried praying, something along the lines of, "Please, God, let me live," and maybe he'd heard me, maybe he hadn't. I wasn't even sure God existed, but it was worth trying. Maybe I was in heaven; it made sense considering all the whiteness. Maybe my mother's religion had been right after all. I suddenly regretted all those times my mother had taken me to church and I hadn't paid attention, doodling on a scrap of paper instead. But if this was heaven, I wasn't enjoying it at all. Everything was still cold and I could feel pain, but I wasn't sure where it was coming from. Heaven... maybe this was hell instead. That would explain the pain, but wasn't hell supposed to by fiery, not cold?

I don't think I was dead though. There was a constant beeping noise somewhere. It sounded familiar, but I wasn't quite able to place it. Maybe heaven isn't real after all. But then again, I wouldn't know. I've never died before.

After regaining consciousness, I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry that I wasn't dead. Granted, I was alive, but I had been shot in both the leg and the shoulder by bullets from a Jezail gun (uncommon for this day and age) and had contracted a strange disease not unlike typhoid (but not typhoid exactly). I was over the disease now, but I had lost a lot of weight. When I looked in the mirror for the first time since falling ill, I saw the haggard creature that stared back at me and was completely horrified. At that point, I almost wished I had died and gone to heaven instead.

...

This is not supposed to be religious, it's just John contemplating his current situation, life, and other such mysteries.

Also, for those of you who haven't read _A Study in Scarlet_ or have forgotten the details, Watson was shot in the shoulder by a Jezail bullet (in my own head-canon, he was also hit in the leg, explaining the sore leg in later stories) and caught "enteric fever" (known in modern days as typhoid fever) shortly afterward.

I apologize for any medical inconsistencies or other factual errors in that area, but this is fan_fiction_, is it not?


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